


Iced

by CrystalExhibition



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalExhibition/pseuds/CrystalExhibition
Summary: Kuryakin is rescued from a kidnapper, and Solo's there for what happens afterwards.





	Iced

**Author's Note:**

> Diving right in here (as do our two leads), getting right to the h/c. I apologize for getting any Russian words wrong. There's a section here were Napolean speaks in Russian but I've written it in English in Italics. See the end notes for what I hope are the closest translations of the Russian words and phrases.

The water was completely frigid. That was the first thought to cross his mind. Not _Dear God, I can’t move, I can’t swim, I’m about to drown_. It was My God, it’s freezing, why is it freezing?

He’d spent time in Siberia, he knew freezing.

His brain was still too sluggish, his body in too much pain and too wrought to its limits, to really grasp what was happening. And as he tugged at the bonds that held him to the chair sinking in the water, he wondered lazily if this might be the end. He thought back to his family, his early days in the KGB, his many assignments he’d had in his relatively short time in the service. The people he’d met, loved, lost. He thought of that cowboy Napoleon Solo, how he’d never see him again. Out of everything, that hit his gut like a freight train, but fortunately his vision clouded over and he began to slip away. The last thing he was aware of was a snapping sound, movement and the thought of an American spy.

_God Damn, this water is cold!_ Napoleon Solo would’ve cursed that out loud if he could. Instead he swam with all his might to the dark shape sinking into the swimming pool. It was so quick, Solo almost didn’t catch it. One minute Kuryakin was there, in just a pair of briefs in December tied to a chair at the edge of the pool, the next there was a splash and he was gone. After quickly taking out his obstacles Solo had dove in after his partner. He was on the chair in a few moments, and pulled out a knife to slice the bonds holding Kuryakin in place, letting the chair sink and grabbing the Russian around the chest and kicking them both to the surface.

Once they breached, Solo leaned back in the water, supporting Kuryakin’s head on his shoulder and back stroking with one arm to the edge of the pool. He got the KGB agent on his back on the water’s edge and leaned over him, checking him over. “Kuryakin?” he asked, and realizing they were alone; “Illya? Illya, can you hear me?”

Even in low light, the Russian looked bad. Really bad. And he wasn’t moving. But, after a fast thump on the chest from Solo, suddenly Kuryakin was animated, coughing up water and gasping for air. “Good, good, khorosho, good man”. After the coughing subsided, Kuryakin’s eyes fluttered closed again. “No Peril, net, stay with me, stay awake, bodrstvovat.” It was no use, and when Solo pried one of his blackened eyes open and shone a light to it, he could see the dilated pupils, only the slightest hint of blue remaining.

“Damn it.” Drugged, Solo could tell instantly. With God only knew what. And, on top of everything else, they were both freezing. Solo pushed it all aside; the worry, the fear, the anger, the cold, the relief of even seeing Kuryakin alive, and what seemed like a thousand other thoughts and feelings that were of no use to them now, and focused on the mission, which was to get them both to safety. With that Solo got Kuryakin over his shoulders and rushed to the waiting car.

A few hours later at the safe house in Lyon, Solo tried to enjoy a cigarette in a sitting room, but was not having much luck with that. He had changed, warmed up and sorted everything with Waverly. Now all there was to do was wait.

The reports had come in on Kuryakin’s condition, with nothing sounding good. Coupled with what they knew about Forster’s interrogation tactics, it painted a grim picture. Currently Kuryakin suffered from various injuries consistent with prolonged torture, several druggings with various cocktails of chemicals, sleep deprivation, hypothermia and was likely kept in isolation for extended periods of time. As Solo had read over the files during his debriefing he’d had to hide just how much the findings made him want to scream, smash something and go back to Forster’s hideout and kill every last fucker there. Getting too upset would’ve given them both away, so Solo had stayed mostly silent, but now, in the quiet and privacy of his current location, he could stew with the best of them and contemplate just how he was going to wipe Forster and his people off the God damn map.

Eventually there came word that Kuryakin had been moved to a recovery area after being patched up by the doctors. Trying not to look too eager, Solo gave it a bit more time and then went off to find out where. It was late by this point, nearly 2am, and most of the place was empty. Solo didn’t have any trouble finding a nurse to give him an update and point the room out down the hall.

It was a private room, a simple bedroom with some added medical equipment. Kuryakin lay deeply asleep; the nurse had told Solo that after all the drugs that had kept the Russian awake for so long, he was experiencing a metabolic crash, and would likely sleep for a few days. Solo approached the bed carefully nonetheless, not wanting to chance waking him. The light was low in the room, and the patient was covered in blankets, but Solo could see everything; every gash, every bandage, every bruise, every burn, the grey tinge of his skin, the darkness around his eyes, the hollowness of his face, the breathing apparatus, just…everything.

Solo closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned and made sure the door was closed, locked and the curtain drawn. A quick glance around the room confirmed there were no cameras. And Solo took the opportunity to lean over Kuryakin and gently kiss his forehead, threading his fingers though the dull, blonde hair.

“I’m here Peril. I’m right here, I’ve got you now. You’re safe.” Solo pressed his forehead to Kuryakin’s, savoring the closeness, listening to him breathe. “Just sleep. I’ll guard you.”

Solo reluctantly pulled away and pulled up a chair to the bed. He unlocked the door first (that would’ve raised questions) before settling in for a long wait. He began to look over files, but his eyes kept flickering to the figure in the bed, who was way too still, way too silent.

The first time Illya came close to waking up, it was swinging.

Solo was in the room at the time. He’d left a few times to discuss things with Waverly and Gabby and update others on Forster’s location. He’d reluctantly left to take a break and sleep for a while, only to allay suspicion. But, as much as possible, Solo stayed by Kuryakin’s side, waiting and watching.

The next day, sometime in the afternoon, Solo’s attention was drawn with a soft moan coming from the bed. Illya was shifting in the sheets, twitching, and making soft noises of confusion and fear. “Illya?” Napolean asked. He moved closer, gently putting a hand on the injured man’s arm.

“Illya, are you hearing me? It’s Napolean.” Kuryakin’s bruised eyes were squeezed tight in fear. Whatever he was dreaming about was spooking him. Solo tried to talk him down, quietly and calmly. “Peril, it’s OK. You’re safe. Whatever you’re dreaming about it’s not real.”

“Stop” Illya breathed. There was no strength behind the word, but there was fright, plain as day. “Net, ostanovis', pozhaluyata. Ne trogay money. Stop."

“It’s not real Illya.” Napolean stroked Illya’s hair, frustrated beyond description that he couldn’t do more, and that he couldn’t kill Forster right this second. “It’s not real, they can’t hurt you anymore. YA nakhozhus’ zdes, I vy v bezopasnosti.”

What Solo didn’t see coming was the punch Kuryakin threw out of nowhere, nearly colliding with Napolean’s face. Solo couldn’t help but notice that the swing was surprisingly strong for someone who’d been beaten and starved to within an inch of his life, but it clearly hurt the Russian to do it. Napolean took his arm and attempted to hold him down. “Illya stop. Stop! You’ll hurt yourself.”

“NET!” That temper was flaring up, his fear converting to rage, as it so often did with Illya Kuryakin. But he was drugged, sick, half asleep, severely injured and in serious danger, so Napolean punched the call button while he attempted to hold the very large, enraged man down.

After an eternity a doctor and nurse arrived and, with Solo’s help, they were able to administer a stronger sedative. The fight slowly drained out of Kuryakin as the drug took effect and he sank back onto the bed. An examination showed that, thankfully, he hadn’t injured himself.

Once they were left alone again Napolean let out a relieved chuckle. “I know you gave them one hell of a fight Peril. But it’s over, you don’t need to fight anymore. Just sleep.” And things were quiet for a while longer.

When Napolean woke up after a light doze, he awoke to two black and blue eyes staring at him.

Solo sat up with a start. Kuryakin was awake, rolled onto his side and looking at him with an expression that Napolean could only describe as ‘shocked confusion’, and the American would also use the word ‘terrified’ in there, but reluctantly.

Solo quickly glanced around and saw they were alone. “Illya?” he asked gently. “Are you alright?” He tried to move closer, put his hand on Illya’s or check him over, and Illya jerked away so hard that Solo instantly froze.

“Whoa, easy, it’s OK. I’m not going to touch you if you don’t want me to. Just…don’t move, OK? You’ll hurt yourself.”

Honestly, Solo wasn’t sure what to do. Kuryakin was breathing hard now and still staring with wide frightened eyes, still not saying a word. And then Napolean remembered what had been written in those briefings he had read over in an almost vain attempt to distract himself. One of the torture tactics Forster’s people used was to make the victim question reality. The drugs and the sleep deprivation assisted with that, and then the interrogators would instill false hope, or lie to the victim. Napolean’s stomach churned when he realized this might be what’s happening now. Illya was looking at him and wasn’t certain if any of this was real, most of all him.

So, keeping his distance for now, Solo switched to Russian to try to explain things. _“I’m willing to bet you’re a little confused right now”_ he said as calmly and clearly as he could. _“You’re safe. Please know that. You’re safe now. Your name is Illya Kuryakin. You’re a KGB agent currently working for UNCLE. My name is Napolean Solo. I’m CIA, working for UNCLE too. You and I have been partners for a just a little over three years now. You were taken by a terrorist named Forster, two and a half weeks ago. We extracted you three days ago and you’ve been recovering here in Lyons, France. You’re going to be OK. You’re OK now.”_

Kuryakin still stared, but his eyes weren’t quite so wide anymore. But he still wasn’t there yet, still couldn’t trust him yet.

“Would it help if I spoke in English?” Solo asked. “That’s how I usually talk to you.” There was still uncertainty hanging in the air, so Napolean just went for broke. “What can I do, Illya? What can I do to convince you you’re safe now?”

Illya took a somewhat calmer breath and his eyes finally moved away from Solo, but there was still some fear, some reluctance. “Are…are you him?” Illya asked. His voice was weak and hoarse, and so lost and vulnerable that Napolean could barely take it. “Are you Napolean Solo?”

“Yes” Napolean answered immediately, getting desperate for the Russian to finally believe him. “Yes Peril, it’s me.”

Kuryakin’s breath caught when the man claiming to be Solo called him by the nickname Solo always used with him. He wanted to believe it. He so desperately wanted it to be over, wanted Napolean Solo to be right in front of him. But…something held him back. He still couldn’t go through the pain of losing hope again. He could think of only one thing. “Tell me...Tell me something…only Napolean Solo would know.”

Napoleon looked at him for a long moment. There were definitely things he could say to Illya that might finally convince him. But…they were private…and incriminating. “I can do that, but…is it okay if I come a little closer? So I can whisper them in your ear?” A flicker of fear passed over the Russian’s face, but in the end his desire to know won out and he nodded his consent.

Slowly, Napolean stood up from his chair and then sat down on the bed, careful not to actually put his hands on Illya, no matter how bad he wanted to. Instead he leaned over so his lips were just above Kuryakin’s ear. And then he hesitated, not sure how to begin. Finally, he just dove.

“I could tell you that the very first time I ever saw your face you were trying to kill me, and I was trying to kill you. I could tell you that the first conversation we ever had you brought up my criminal background and I insulted your parents and enraged you to the point that you flipped a table. But…anyone could look that up if they really wanted to.” Napoleon paused, knowing Illya was hanging on every word.

“I’d rather talk about how the first time you kissed me was just after you performed mouth to mouth on me, and when I finally woke up you were so relieved you just did it without thinking…and then you were just as relieved when I kissed you back. And about how when you’re certain no one is looking, you wrap your little finger around mine for just a moment, just to remind me that you’re there and how you feel.” Napolean lowered his voice and let it get a little seductive; “and how when we’re in the throes of passion you start saying “bol’she, bol’she, da, da, bol’she” over and over again as I get you closer to the edge.” Napoleon smiled at the memory before moving on to one more thing. “And about how I love your feet, and how you fall asleep every single time I rub them. It doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing; as soon as I get a few minutes with your feet you are completely out.”

By this point Illya’s breathing had become erratic, his whole body trembling. Napolean so wanted to touch him, to stroke his hair or his back and comfort him, but held off. He’d promised he wouldn’t until he got the go ahead, and he’d die before he lost the trust between them. “Despite everything we started off with, everything we had going against us, we fell in love somehow. And that’s the biggest and most wonderful secret I’ve ever carried. And to see you like this; hurt and scared and not sure who I am…I can’t stand it. I love you Peril.”

“Napoleon” it came out as a sob as Illya broke down, reaching for Solo’s hand. The American was only too happy to oblige, holding it tightly as he lost his fingers in Illya’s hair and kissed his cheek. “It’s OK Illya, it’s over now. It’s over. You’re safe.” He didn’t get up to lock the door. He didn’t check if anyone was coming. Frankly, at that moment, Solo couldn’t give a flying fuck if anyone walked in on them right now. Illya needed him, so that’s what he focused on. He stood up long enough to climb over his partner and curl up behind him, wrapping the Russian in his arms and holding as tight as the injuries would allow. If anyone asked he’d say he was just comforting a friend while he fell apart. No one could fault them for that. “It’s OK Peril, it’s OK. I’ve got you. I’m here. Let it out. It’s going to be OK.” The tears came for a while, and Solo repeated those words over and over again, willing his partner to believe them, to find some solace.

After the tears stopped, Illya lay silently in Solo’s arms but didn’t sleep right away. He just seemed… stunned. Napolean couldn't blame him for that. But despite doctors and nurses coming and going and fussing over their patient Solo stayed where he was, all but daring anyone to say anything. He stayed until Illya drifted off again, and would be there when he woke back up again, for as long as it took.

It was a few weeks before the doctors would let Kuryakin leave. By that point Illya had stopped sleeping almost constantly and was ready to start climbing the walls. Solo never expected his partner would make an easy patient, and though it was trying it was still nice to have his suspicions confirmed.

They were assigned a hotel room and the first night there they both breathed in relief just to be out of the hospital and to have some time to themselves. Kuryakin headed to the shower while Solo started setting up the room, wondering how the evening would unfold now that they were alone.

Napolean heard Illya come out of the shower just as he was turning down the bed. He came into the washroom as the Russian was towelling off and leaned against the door. “Just so there’s no vagueness Peril, I don’t know how you’re feeling right now, so there’s no pressure. We can just talk, or sit together, or you could get some sleep or-”

The sentence was cut off by Illya practically throwing himself at the American, roughly kissing him and pinning him against the door frame. For an explosive moment the two kissed passionately, fueled from far too long spent apart. Solo broke first.

“Whoa whoa whoa wait a minute. Wait a minute.” They both caught their breath with Illya looking at his partner with confusion. “Hey, I want this, I really do” Napolean explained. “I just want to be sure you do. You’ve been through a lot, you’re probably feeling a million different things right now, and I won’t take advantage of you. So…we don’t have to do this.”

“Napolean” Illya said, his voice husky and tight. “They…they told me you were dead.” The room seemed to freeze. “I…tried not to believe them, but they…were relentless…I…I didn’t know for certain…I didn’t know if I’d make it out of there either. I thought…I thought I would never see you again…never touch you again.” His trembling hands slid up Solo’s chest over his shirt. “I thought I’d never feel you pressed against me, feel your lips on mine, or lay beside you. I-” He took a shuddering breath and tried to compose himself, but mostly failed. “Please Cowboy, I need you. I…hurt for so long, there was so much pain, I need to feel this, I need you, please…”

Solo drew the man’s head to his shoulder and held him, kissing his temple, too stunned for words. How could he ever deny him anything? After a pause he cupped Illya’s chin and kissed his mouth again, and all the longing and the fear and the love built between them.

They made love well into the night. Napolean was probably as gentle as he’d ever been while in bed with someone, trying to give Illya everything he needed while not hurting him or over-exerting him. Solo marveled at how it felt like he was handling the most delicate of china instead of the infamous 6 foot 4 inch KGB agent known as the Red Peril. But he knew every tender, delicate spot on the Russian’s body by heart now, and he played to each one. And as much as he tried to keep the focus on Illya, Kuryakin was just as attentive with Solo.

Finally they were both sated. After cleaning up a bit Napolean came back into the room to find Illya curled on his side with his eyes closed, the sheets covering him up to his waist. Solo figured he’d finally fallen asleep, and he turned off the lights before climbing into the bed himself, rolling onto his side so he could face his partner. Using the slightest of touch, worthy of the world-class thief he was, he brushed his knuckles against the frame of Illya’s bruised and pale face, and was surprised when, without opening his eyes, Illya reached up and caught his hand, bringing his palm to his lips and kissing it.

“I thought you were asleep” Napolean said with a smile.

“Nearly” Illya said, opening his bleary eyes and looking at the American. “Thank you for tonight.”

Solo continued to brush against Illya’s face. “That was my pleasure too.”

Illya savored the feel of Solo’s hand…but the memories of his time there came to him, unbidden, and he looked at Napolean, wanting to memorize this moment, his face, every feature…just in case it tuned out this wasn’t real after all.

Solo saw the change in his expression and furrowed his brows in concern. “Do you want to talk about it?” Kuryakin shook his head no, but did inch closer to the American. Napolean closed the distance and took Illya into his arms, wrapping him as much as he could in himself and the blankets, protecting him for as long as he was able to from this bed in a French hotel in the dead of winter.

“Cowboy?” Illya asked from where he rested against Solo’s chest.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t ever let me go.”

Napolean tightened his grip. “Never.” He loosened that grip just enough to stroke his partner’s hair. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m afraid you’re stuck with me Peril.”

Solo felt as well as heard Kuryakin’s smile. “I’m surprisingly not bothered by that.”

“I’d hope not; I’m not going anywhere. Just…don’t let me go either.”

“Never.” Illya burrowed deeper into Napolean’s arms. “Vy zastryali so mnoy tozhe.”

Napolean smiled and kissed the top of Illya’s head. “I love you.”

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.”

“Get some sleep.”

Napolean stayed awake long enough to feel Illya’s breath slow and even out to a peaceful rhythm, and his muscles relax in Solo’s arms. Napolean realized that no prize he could ever steal could be better than a moment like this. And then he finally drifted off himself.

**Author's Note:**

> khorosho - OK  
net - no  
bodrstvovat - stay awake  
Net, ostanovis', pozhaluysta. Ne trogay menya. Stop. - No, stop, please. Don't touch me. Stop.  
YA nakhozhus’ zdes, I vy v bezopasnosti - I'm here and you're safe  
Vy zastryali so mnoy tozhe. - You're stuck with me too.  
Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu - I love you too.


End file.
